


Dancing under influence

by Russandork



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Apparently it's possible with these two, Drinking and music equals some much needed fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russandork/pseuds/Russandork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin lets out a chuckle. "This is not me: it’s the whiskey acting."</p><p>“Well, I cannot say that I mind.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing under influence

**Author's Note:**

> Small ficlet for [endrae](http://endrae.tumblr.com) based on [their](http://endrae.tumblr.com/post/93228153917/so-its-said-serkonans-are-marvelous-dancers) wonderful fanart.

It begins simply enough.

Witty banter over a few drinks, their tongues loosened by the effect of whiskey, spaces between them gradually closing. Neither of them have drunk to the point of inebriation (they both have business to attend to later on), but just enough to feel a pleasant buzz in their heads. They linger in silence longer than usual but it's no problem: they have that time to soak up each other's presence. The chances to see each other have grown scarce lately, but the time spent apart brings them closer and makes their reunions all the more enjoyable.

Absentminded eyes fixed on the bottom of his glass, Daud allows himself an inaudible sigh, perks up when the spot beside him feels incredibly lighter all of a sudden. He watches Martin fish an audiograph out of his coat, which rests over the arm of a chair, and insert it into the player on the desk. Daud's eyes narrow in unspoken curiosity, but Martin simply smirks and lets the audiograph play. Soft music fills the room and Daud stares at the player, a look of pleasant surprise on his face.

The smile that plays about Martin's mouth tells him the overseer has been waiting to do this for a long time.

"I piqued your interest last time, I see."

His words catch Martin with a mouth full of whiskey, and he swallows as he sets his empty glass aside. "I didn't take you for the kind of man that stated the obvious." He snorts a laugh, waves his hand dismissively. "It's a compilation of several songs, actually. I must admit I listen to it often; it doesn't cease to impress me."

Daud nods absently. Serkonan music is indeed remarkable, unlike anything the people of Dunwall have ever heard – which is the reason why the aristocrats copy both the music and the dances. Daud is no music expert but he can say with certainty that the aristocracy's imitations cannot measure up to the real thing. His thoughts wander to Karnaca during the summer months, of the band of musicians that would every day claim their spot in the middle of the main street. They would always play the very best of their repertoire, expecting no praise or coins or even acknowledgement, and they never failed to surprise the passersby, young Daud included. The soft guitar notes that fill the room sound very similar.

The assassin finishes the rest of his drink, hoping the alcohol helps him shake off the memories of a time long past. He does enough reminiscing when he's alone in his office; there's no need to do so here. He stands to leave his glass next to Martin's, catches the expectant look in the overseer's eyes, and they both allow themselves a brief smile.

Their transition from talking to dancing is smoother than the last time they tried; clearly, Martin is much more comfortable and confident with his movements. It could be due to two things: the influence of whiskey or the slow rhythm of the music; Daud is sure it's because of both. His marked hand rests gently on the small of Martin's back, and the other one holds Martin's hand by its fingertips. Tonight, there's no need to bring Martin closer to him; the overseer himself has taken care of leaving no space between them.

"So you've been practicing?"

Martin lets out a chuckle. "You could say that. Though don’t be fooled: this is not me; it’s the whiskey acting."

“Well, I cannot say that I mind.”

They dance like they've been at it for years. Martin does not trip over his own feet anymore, which the assassin appreciates perhaps more than he should. He pays special attention to the way their bodies meld together; they fit almost perfectly, like the pieces of a puzzle. Daud steers them around the empty space, and Martin follows without a hitch. He moves fluidly, with the feline-like grace that Daud is so used to seeing; it’s what he loves about Martin – among other things. The smile on the man's lips is contagious, and without any further thought Daud abandons himself to the rhythm and focuses on complimenting the motions and movements of the body pressed against him.

The music slows to a stop and silence falls between them, but the audiograph doesn't stop playing; oh right, a compilation.

"That was good..."

Martin chuckles again.

Their dancing eventually degrades into something simpler, but it’s but no less physical. Daud has his chest against Martin's back and his arms around the man's waist, and they just sway at the rhythm of the next song. None of them feels the need to say or do anything else: this is enough – _more_ than enough, in fact. Martin rests his head on Daud’s shoulder and smiles briefly. It’s an almost dreamy smile, Daud notices, the smallest show of genuine enjoyment.

The situation is oddly romantic.

Daud can’t say that he minds.


End file.
